


Most Nights

by Ohlookitstomorrow



Series: TWW February Lemonfest [1]
Category: The Worst Witch (TV 1998), The Worst Witch - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Prompt - Ritual, Prompt - Stripping, Written for TWWValventineLemonFest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-22 11:45:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17661977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ohlookitstomorrow/pseuds/Ohlookitstomorrow
Summary: I sleep most nights... six hours at the weekend.It's a warm, June evening - Saturday to be precise - and Constance Hardbroom does all but sleep.





	Most Nights

Constance breathed a sigh of relief as she finally closed the door to her quarters.

The month of June heralded the exam seasons, and Constance had been surprised, and more than happy, to see that even Mildred Hubble seemed to be using her free Saturday wisely - not that she'd ever let the girl in on her hint of pride. In fact, when Constance had inspected Mildred's rooms toward the end of her nightly rounds, she'd barked an order for Mildred to keep the noise down: at first, Constance had thought the girl to be revising her chanting, until she'd heard a peculiar list of potions ingredients emanate from Mildred's room in a screeching voice. It was a most irregular way of remembrance, and not at all to Constance's taste, but she couldn't deny it seemed to be working - Mildred had listed off the ingredients for a sleeping-draught without a single mistake - so really, Constance had no choice but to let it slide.

Not only were exams on their way, but so was the better weather. Today had been muggy, clammy and full of sun - Constance was positively cooking, draped in her heavy, black, velvet dress. Miss Cackle had suggested she change into something more sensible, but that was a ridiculous notion, Constance was not due to swap in her summer wardrobe for another two days - and rules must be followed with the height of discipline and restraint.

Even her ritualistic, warm bath could not be so frivolously discarded at the mere hint of sunshine: Constance had a routine that she had to follow - she was as strict with herself as she was with the girls.

In the dim light of the candelabra overhead, she began to disrobe. 

Relief flooded to the balls of her feet immediately, as she stepped out of her thick, heeled boots. Her toes curled in pleasure as the cool of the marble teased her skin through the light layer of her stockings.

The chained belt clinching her waist was removed next, laid carefully atop the porcelain cabinet that housed her toiletries. Constance made sure that the keys attached to the chain were withing her grasp at all times - it wouldn't do for one of the students to get hold of them and unlock her private potions store... she shuddered at the image of the last time someone decided to swallow one of her unlabelled experiments.

Reaching behind her neck to undo the first buttons that ran from the high collar of her dress to the base of her spine, was not the easiest of tasks (unfortunately, Constance did not possess eyes on the back of her head, as so many students believed). Her arms strained slightly at the effort, but at no point did Constance Hardbroom allow displeasure to cross her face.

One could, of course, use magic for such trivial things, and for a witch as skilled as she, it would be a simple flick of the wrist, but Miss Hardbroom, always so taut and straight, enjoyed the slow process of undressing. With each layer removed, Constance felt a little calmer, the day's stress melting away.

When the last of the buttons were freed, she peeled the velvet from her arms and allowed it to fall, only held to her person by the curve of her hips. She shimmied the dress the rest of the way down the long expanse of her legs, folding it methodically before placing it in the wicker-basket for laundering.

The small sigh that escaped her lips as she, once again, returned to her full height, could not be helped. A slight breeze entered the room, causing the silk of her slip to flutter against the mid of her thighs, and Constance longed for the eventuality of being completely bare.

Delicately, long fingers lifted the dark satin high, until she stood in nothing but her underwear. But still, far too much of her skin was covered.

The restrictive hold of her lace basque had been irritating her all day, and the inevitable moan as it was unhooked and her breasts were finally freed, was an octave too loud, too low, for her liking.

She resisted the urge to massage the sensitive skin of her breasts, instead, immediately urging her hands to the thin garter belt which kept the snap of her suspenders from dropping. Once the single hook was unfastened, Constance moved her hands to unclasp each of her stockings, one-by-one.

The smooth midnight-silk of her stockings, left gooseflesh in their wake as she slid them down her shapely legs with no haste. When the only clothing that remained on her body, was the lace that covered her centre, she folded her slip, basque and stockings, in the same manner, that she'd addressed her dress.

Even in the privacy of her own rooms, Constance was averse to wandering around in anything less than full dress or nightwear, but this evening, she allowed herself one, small discrepancy - she neglected to don her silken nightrobe as she turned the taps and waited for the large bath to fill.

Constance wasn't a total puritan, she did allow herself a few luxuries, namely; a large glass of deep-red wine, and various earthy scents to soften her bath water.

With the bath filled, and the soothing scent of sandalwood permeating the air, she stood to remove her last article of clothing. Her thumb and forefinger of each hand closed around the dark lace that rested at her hips. Finally, she could breathe easily. Standing in the middle of her bathroom, she stretched languidly as every inch of her naked skin was bared to the air.

However, Constance's self-induced torture was not yet over. She winced as she dipped a single toe into the water, steam rising as the rest of her leg disappeared. 

A relaxing soak was, in normal circumstance, the highlight of her day - the only time where she was truly alone, and the hardness of Miss Hardbroom waited by the door. 

A gulp of wine did very little to help, in fact, it only served as a hindrance. Constance cursed her own lack of foresight as the liquid burned an agonising path down the back of her throat.

A tempting voice in the back of her mind taunted her, reminding her she could just get out and cast a simple cooling charm, but that would mean abandoning her own principles, and she was not one to lie down in defeat.

Vapour from the water had collected at her hairline, and Constance felt its weight like a rock. The bun, perched high on her head, was only adding tension to the muscles of her neck, which were already very, tightly wound. But this time, she held no respect for methodical slowness; and instead of removing each pin, and allowing each curl to fall, she waved her hand haphazardly, and her long mane of inky-black hair cascaded around her shoulders, tendrils floating on the top of the water like reeds.

But still, everything was too warm, and sore, and sensitive, and _taut_. Constance almost cried out in frustration as she hunched herself forward, breasts touching her knees, and begged for relief.

She finally gave into the impracticality of her ritual when she lowered the temperature of the water surrounding her, but that only took care of the warmth, her muscles still longed to be uncoiled.

The new coolness of the water had caused her nipples to pebble and she felt the hardness of them as they brushed the tips of her knees. The contact of skin-on-skin was almost soothing, and yet, it was far from enough.

As she lay back against the lip of the bath, Constance moved to cover her breasts with her hands. She kept them still for a moment, until a sharp niggle of awakening caused her fingers to contract, the sensation drawing forth breathless, heavy gasps.

It felt like every ounce of pent up tension was bubbling inside of her, moving to linger right underneath her skin. Constance could only link the feeling inside herself to that of electricity - a complete anomaly to her, yet something she was _very_ aware of. 

The warmth she thought she'd dissipated, returned with a vengeance, except this time, Constance didn't consider it to be stifling or restrictive. It was an odd sort of heat, like something that washes over you after minutes of tireless exertion, yet, it left her far from tired: Constance hadn't felt so awake, so alert, so _hypersensitive_ , in... well, in a very long time.

She knew the heat would not stick around for long, and she knew that no amount of magic or cool breezes, would succeed in banishing it. No, as Constance palmed one breast softly, and twisted the nipple of the other, an innate sense deep inside her very being directed her on what she must do.

The water rippled as her hands delved between the surface, trailing over the flat plains of her stomach, muscles twitching and jumping as southern-bound fingertips lightly caressed. 

Hands stilling just below her navel, Constance clenched her eyes closed as a battle was waged inside her head. 

This was not at all proper, giving into base desires was weak and terribly uncouth. It wasn't that Constance had never felt the touch of her own hand before, but that had been in her youth - when an excess of hormones could be classed as an excuse, and before Mistress Broomhead had instilled in her the most rigorous discipline. The very few times Constance had touched herself in the intervening years, she'd been unable to reach completion, shame had washed away all thoughts of arousal.

By her age, most women did not have to resort to such unmentionable things, their partners took care of their needs (or so Constance believed), she'd heard various whispers, she'd witnessed the beginnings of a few lover's trysts while she stood on a high podium at some conference or other. 

But Constance had no wish for a partner, at least not one that she'd come across thus far. She'd received more than a few offers, surprisingly, from both sexes, and at times she'd found herself slightly attracted, but not enough that she held any desire to lay with them.

She hadn't a significant other, nor was she willing to actively search for one, but she wanted to feel. She longed to feel the twitch of her hips as they stuttered in release. She wanted it now. Here. At that very moment. Constance's desire was so great, it was more of a need, rather than a want.

She opened her eyes in defiance, the hum of her being had made her decision, and Constance found she could no longer ignore the throbbing between her legs - the ache had been there for long enough, but only now was she registering it.

Her hands slipped further downwards. 

Past course curls, until the soft pads of her fingertips, met the swollen flesh nestled between her folds. Her back arched at the contact, her whole body almost lifting from the sheet of water. It had been so long, _too_ long, and Constance felt tears prick her eyes as she allowed herself to feel very human.

The flesh between her legs was wet, different from the water that moved in waves as her fingers began the trace of soft circles, it was slicker, under her ministrations it felt soft, almost like velvet. But unlike the velvet of her dress, here, trapped in the beginnings of pleasure, Constance carried no vestiges of Miss Hardbroom.

Her other hand that until now, had lain dormant on the soft swell of her stomach, moved past its companion. One finger, swiftly followed by a second, sheathed themselves inside the searing heat of her core. 

Far from uncomfortable, Constance allowed her head to roll back, her teeth biting into the supple flesh of her bottom lip as she failed in her attempts to stem a low moan of pleasure at the inexplicable feeling. 

Both hands moved in tandem, thrusting and circling without much input from the mind - not that it was in any fit state to command any sort of control. 

After having gone so long without sexual release, it was an inevitability that Constance could not hold out for long. She came without any warning, her mouth forming a silent gasp, her hips thrashing wildly. 

When the enormity of it all subsided, she sank back into porcelain that was, now, as cool as ice. 

She felt more relaxed than she could remember, her skin still hummed with electricity, but it was no longer a persistent want, now, it was a soothing buzz. 

It seemed relaxation was odd and unique to each individual.

Miss Drill relaxed on (what Constance would term) a strenuous run through the dense forest.

Miss Cackle enjoyed sinking into the smooth company of lemon cheesecake, in an establishment, Constance felt, was far too inviting, and un-witch-like. But, she did have to admit, Mrs. Cosy's scones were second-to-none.

Miss Bat found the cramped space of the staff-room cupboard to be soothing, and need Constance explain to herself the preposterousness of that?

Her colleagues knew that a glass of wine and a long bath were Constance's modes of de-stressing, but they need not know that tonight, a new, addition had been welcomed as part of her ritual.

Only when her skin had pruned, did Constance get out of the bath that evening, and it had to be very near sunrise by the time she eventually got to sleep.

One could call it making up for lost time, but there was no way Constance would regain her six hours of missing sleep - a sacrifice, she was only too happy to make.

**Author's Note:**

> After much deliberation, I have decided to add a few inputs to The Worst Witch Lemon Fest - hosted by the amazingly talented tumblr users; @cassiopeiasara & @victorianlesbian.
> 
> I probably won't be able to fill every prompt, as I' still in the middle of writing 'In These Lines You'll Find Our Story' and I'm also trying to write a Valentines themed addition to my Wicked fanfic 'The Colour of Emeralds' but I'll try and do my best.
> 
> This is the first thing I've ever written in TWW fandom that is not Hicsqueak, but I just love Constance so much, and looking back, she was such a gay awakening for me. 
> 
> The only problem I had was, I've never shipped Constance with anyone - I've never really joined the Constance/Imogen train - so I hope this suffices.
> 
> The likelihood is that the rest of these prompts will be Hicsqueak centered.
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read, and please feel free to leave your thoughts, comments and the like, are always much appreciated.
> 
> You can find me on;  
> Tumblr @ohlookitstomorrowff  
> Instagram @ohlookitstomorrow
> 
> Catch:)


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